


In Peace, Vigilance; In Death, Sacrifice

by Herbrarian



Series: New Orders [2]
Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, Callier Massacre, Character Death, Character Study, Conscription Ale, Daerwin's Mouth, Deep Roads, Friendship, Gen, Grey Wardens, Memories, Missions, Montfort, Orlais, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-05-28
Packaged: 2018-06-07 20:11:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 12,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6822277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Herbrarian/pseuds/Herbrarian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Previously: Thom Rainier is on the run. Chapuis’ coin has run out and word of the Callier massacre has spread. The Empress wants him dead. The Grand Duke wants him dead. Chapuis is dead by his own hand. To keep one step ahead of the army, Thom has retreated to the north.</em>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“What’s your name?”

He looks the Grey Warden up and down.

Normally, this is where he would lie, not give out his name for fear he’d give out what he’d done, who he’d been.

But. A Grey Warden.

“Rainier. Thom Rainier.”

The Constable of the Grey, Warden Gordon Blackwall, pauses in lifting his drink to his lips, shifts his bone pipe from one side of his mouth to another, and then sips.

“Well, it’s a damn good thing I was the one who pulled you out of that bar fight, isn’t it?”


	2. Chapter 2

The Warden wraps the reins around the post of the cart and climbs down. Thom sees him pull out a dagger strapped to his inner calf, the handle resting just above the man’s boot top. From where he sits, Thom can see that the blade’s color is dull in the clear sunlight; he wonders what it is made of.

“Eh, is that iron?” Thom asks.

“What?” the Warden calls over his shoulder.

Thom watches as the man bends over to grab the horse’s front, left hoof, inspecting the surface for a stone or a crack in the foot. Seeing nothing he puts that leg down and straightens, patting the horse’s mane as he straightens. “What did you say?”

“Is it iron?”

The Warden just stares at him.

“The blade,” Thom prompts at the other man’s blank stare. The Warden’s eyes are clear and they observe Thom with a dull light that misses little despite being a stare more fitting on a corpse.

“Aye, I knew what you meant, man.” He shifts his ever present bone pipe from one side of his mouth to the other and clenches it on the other side of his jaw. “Ney, it isn’t iron.” Without further indication of thought, the Warden moves to the back leg on the same side and lifts that hoof to inspect it. The man’s large hands are gentle as they cup the horse’s leg. The Warden pulls his fingers over the surface of the hoof, finds nothing, and lowers the leg. “Iron doesn’t last long around darkspawn blood.”

Thom feels a bit surly with the Warden’s lack of answer. It has been a terse day since Churneau. It was purely impulse that led Thom to tell his name to the Warden. Now that they have been travelling together—in relatively stony silence—Thom wonders if it was the correct choice.

As a boy he had enjoyed the great stories of valor and heroism around the Wardens, which had been because of Liddy as much as anything. His sister had loved the tales and her delicate nature necessitated she spent much of her time indoors, so books were her way of moving beyond their house. The Grey Warden stories were Liddy’s favorite. She would wrestle through the horrors of darkspawn if it meant that at the end she could have a Grey Warden to save the fucking world. He had been an active boy but Liddy had found that if she bribed him with stories he would sit with her and keep her company. He had spent many hours with his younger twin that way, in all seasons, Liddy reading to Thom. That last summer with Liddy he’d spent hours of the afternoon and evening—the room stifling with a fire in the grate while she still shivered from a chill—reading to her. After she was gone, he stopped reading the stories and no one else offered to read to him anymore.

It had been the image of Liddy in his mind that fed the impulse to tell this man his true name, to ask to join the Wardens, to join Blackwall. The affair with Chapuis had introduced a death more likely by the noose than by the sword by which he had lived his life. The presence of the Grey Warden had taken the noose away. Even if death were to come with the addition of darkspawn, it seemed a small price to pay for a good death and not a traitor’s.

But the daily reality of Gordon Blackwall bites sharply into any romantic notion Thom might hold of the Grey Wardens. The man is gruff and taciturn at the best of moments. He seems disinclined to share anything beyond what he deemed necessary. After Thom asked to become a Grey Warden, the man accepted the request easily enough. Thom supposes the price on his own head is known widely enough that the Warden doesn’t question his fervor to join. But the never-ending silence borders on rudeness and Thom’s temper is fraying. He is used to command and men answering him. Despite leaving behind his former life, Chapuis’ coin ensured he could purchase respect, if not deference. When the coin ran out he’d plied his hand briefly as a hired sword again. The work was unfulfilling and poorly suited him as he was a damn sight smarter than the assholes that hired him.

The Warden crosses to the other side of the horse. He repeats his actions with the front hoof, this time finding something and using the knife to pop out the piece of shale. When the horse sets the hoof down, the animal tests its weight and then locks the knee firmly, straightening the shoulder from where before he had favored the foot.

Thom is amazed and blurts out:  “Andraste’s Tasseled Tits, how did you know that was there? I couldn’t even tell he favored the leg.”

The Warden straightens, pats the haunch of the animal, and walks intently toward the cart to come to stand in front of Thom. “You get used to watching animals,” he says, “when you watch for darkspawn. The darkspawn are more like animals then men, so you can see when they will feint, when they’re hurt. Useful in the Deep,” he gestures with the dagger behind him toward the horse, “useful when you’re trying to keep from walking, too.” He then shifts the dagger, his eyes not leaving Thom’s, and hands it to Thom, handle out.

Thom takes the blade in his hand. It is heavy, but well balanced. There is script written around the hilt, encircling it. Thom realizes they are runes. He touches his finger over the symbols. “What does it say?” he asks, his eyes never leaving the blade. Suddenly, he feels another knife blade lying against his throat and the one in his hand begins to glow softly.

“It says,” the gruff voice of the Warden is low, “‘Paired to the Deep, We hold the line.’“

Thom stops breathing. He can’t see the Warden without turning his head which will pull the blade into tender skin. He waits and then hears a slight chuckle. The blade at his throat withdraws and before he can react, the second blade is extended to him, hilt out.

Thom eyes the Warden uncertainly, but the man is smiling at him. Thom reaches out and takes the second blade. As he does, both blades light up like beacons. Thom starts. Blackwall pulls a pouch of tobacco out of his pocket and begins to fill his pipe as he talks.

“They were a gift. After the Hero of Ferelden defeated the Archdemon, the Blight receded. But few think about where it goes. It fills the Deep. On the surface, without an Archdemon to lead them, darkspawn are disorderly and poorly organized. In the Deep Roads, though, the structure of the dwarven tunnels emboldens them. When a Blight ends, they retreat to their natural habitat, but often with a renewed battle lust, made bold by the close, the dank, the dark. They retreat into any abandoned thaig they can find and there are many such places along the Storm Coast. That was how the Warden-Commander, Anatole du Morellus, found Kal’Hirol. I joined with others to help clear the passage to Orzammar from Kal’Hirol. We went in aid to the Legion.”

“The Legion?” Thom asks while Blackwall strikes a matchstick against the side of the cart’s rough boards and lights his tobacco.

“Legion of the Dead.” At Thom’s questioning look, the Warden explains further:  “They are the dwarves who give their lives to hold the line between the last of dwarven civilization and the dark in the Deep. I and several others joined the Legion to clear from Orzammar to Kal’Hirol. Clarel de Chavin and Alisse Fontaine, as well as Anatole and Edgard Masson, we all journeyed down. With Theirin on the throne and the Hero dead, there was no strength left in the Order in Ferelden and there had been some unusual trouble from the darkspawn in Amaranthine. After the finish of that and with Vigil’s Keep as a beacon of the Order’s resilience, many of us wanted to evaluate if there was more to know in the Deep.

“It was a hellish delve. Many of the tunnels were unstable and Clarel and Edgard were separated from us. Alisse led the others on with the Legion while I returned to recover Clarel and Edgard as well as some of the Legionnaires from the tunnel. We survived and helped the Legion to clear far into the route.

“At the end the Order gave me the Silverite wings, a silly thing, but these,” he puffed on his pipe and gestured to the glowing daggers, “were a gift from the Legion general outside Orzammar for recovering his people.

“They are made from fade-touched Paragon’s Luster and Lazurite and enriched with Lyrium. On their own they are dull almost to the point of absorbing light; but when paired they shine, like you see.” Blackwall looks Thom in the eye. “The Deep Roads are a dark, festering place and you don’t want to be without light if you can help it.”

“You are quick with them,” Thom remarks. “I wouldn’t have thought it of a warrior.”

“I had a bit of training with dual blades when I first passed my harrowing. It never really leaves you.” Blackwall takes back the blades from Thom, returns one to his boot and the other under his shirt in the small of his back.

The Warden climbs back up to his seat and Thom joins him on the bench. Blackwall retakes the reins and clucks for the horse to continue on. They travel in silence for a while, but Thom continues the threads of conversation in his mind. Finally, he speaks:

“He’s a _Pura Raza_ _Antivan_?”

“Aye. He’s a bit of age on him, but still is fierce.”

“They’re a powerful breed; rare outside of their home origin. I know few who can afford them. Was he another gift?”

“Of sorts. He needed a home. His former master—a chevalier—met his end in a circle of darkspawn near Jader. This old man and I escaped; his former master was not so lucky.”

“I saw a whole caravan of them once. Beautiful beasts.” Thom’s voice trails off, lost to a memory.

“You must have been in the capital to see wealth like that on display,” the Warden returns amiably, drawing on his pipe.

“No.” Thom answers. “I was in the Dales.”

The Warden accepts the answer and doesn’t ask for more, drawing again on his pipe in a companionable silence.

Thom feels like talking, however.

“It was after. We set all the carriages and carts on fire. Cyril and I went in knowing no survivors, so it made sense to destroy everything, too. By then, we’d ruined so much …” Thom stilts to a stop. Blackwall sucks on his pipe, the glowing center of the tobacco making a slight hiss. “One of my men had the chest of jewels and coin Callier carried with him, and he headed first to the horses we took off the carriages. Tomas had moved them out of the clearing, back among the ruins and had hitched them there as we watched it all burn. Eight of them total, three studs and five mares; Maker’s Balls, they were beautiful,” Thom almost sighs with the memory. “Every one of them dusky and gleaming in the forest light. The smell of blood and smoke was about, was heavy, but they just stood, nibbling at a near outcropping of Arbor Blessing. I ordered Linden to leave the horses, carry the chest on foot; told the men to head back to camp and our own horses.

“The forest was returning to normal. You could start to hear the vireo song calling to its mate and the whicker of the horses. Cyril came up, asked if we should take them, sell them. But they were beautiful, big animals, bred for their majesty and strength; they might be identified as Callier’s and us with them.

“I couldn’t kill such beautiful creatures. It seemed like a sin. So we untacked them and I ordered they be let loose in the forest. They ran; we didn’t see them again. We pushed hard north, out of the Dales. None of us wanted to linger.”

They ride for a while, in silence. When they break for camp, Blackwall has Thom begin to care for the _Par Raza_ , rubbing the animal down at night and seeing to his needs.


	3. Chapter 3

It’s early morning; the sky is grey and wet like a damp rag. Rainier doesn’t move his head, but even with his eyes closed, the world keeps shifting. He lays a palm alongside of each ear to try to still the spinning.

Finally, he realizes that the world _is_ moving. He’s in a bloody cart. With a moan, he opens his eyes again and sits up.

“Maker’s Balls, where in the Fade are we?”

He casts the question around for the companion he knows will be there, knows will be driving the cart, puffing on his pipe. Thom’s not sure it doesn’t actually grow out of the man’s mouth since he seems to eat and sleep with it clenched between his teeth. Thom hears the man cluck to the horse, and they pull to a halt.

“You’re awake; time for a brew up.”

Thom registers mildly that this is the moment he’s supposed to get sticks for the fire. He tumbles out of the cart and lands on his feet, wobbling slightly. “Andraste’s Tits, what is in that swill of yours?” Thom rubs his eyes, tries to clear the film that clings to his vision.

The grizzled Warden chuckles, doesn’t answer, and continues to set up the tripod for the kettle.

Thom realizes it isn’t actually raining. The mist from the river beyond the valley has simply pulverized to the point that it’s like breathing water. Thom finds some dried wood that is only a little soggy. He knows the old Warden has carefully saved some dried kindling from last night’s fire—as he always does—and this should be enough to feed the fire for breaking their fast.

He returns to the cart and leaves the other man to tend the fire and their porridge while he unhitches the cart horse. He rubs the stallion down briefly, checks the shoes for damage, and leaves the animal to graze on a long lead. The horse is a fine beast if a bit long in the tooth now; the same could be said for the Warden.

Having settled the horse, Thom joins the Warden by the fire in the lee of the cart. The aroma of coffee and the starchiness of cooking cereal greet him. Thom watches as the Warden carefully pulls a pouch of salt from his pockets and liberally dusts the porridge.

“Why do you keep that so guarded?” Thom asks as he watches the other man secure it again in a pocket inside his armor.

“Have you ever tried to eat nugs with no salt? Abysmal.”

Thom takes this in in silence, but he knits his brow in consternation. The Warden registers the silence and moves to pour coffee into two tin cups. Handing one to Rainier, he asks: “Why? What did you think?”

Thom hesitates, but plunges on, “I thought maybe it was part of the ritual, for the Wardening.” A flush rises high on Thom’s cheeks and he sips at the coffee, scalding his mouth.

The Warden scratches at his chin, nails and whiskers rubbing together like the sound of a metal file on a pine board, worrying the edge of the scar at the edge of his jaw that the beard he keeps hides.

“That’s not a damn sight bad idea.” The Warden meets Thom’s quizzical gaze. “It’s saved my life before. In the Deep Roads, you can travel for days—weeks—on end and never step into the sunshine. That means you are always on your guard. Being a Warden rarely means making old bones, but you’ll get a damn sight older if you always are ready for fighting in the Deep Roads.”

Thom continues not to see the connection. “What does salt have to do with your armor?”

“Hah! Nothin’!” the Warden laughs. “But even the fittest man gets tired wearing armor all the time and that will make you _sweat_. While you can scrounge water in the Deep, salt can be damn inconsistent in turning up where you need it. You don’t head into a journey without a bag of salt, your sword, and the armor on your back. Everything else, you can find.”

Surprised by the simplicity of the answer, Thom accepts a bowl and eats his seasoned mush in the quiet of the fire.


	4. Chapter 4

It is late morning and Thom is at the reins. The Warden is stretched out in the cart, his head covered in a cloth, and he snores softly. They are on an old road travelling southeast. Thom is not sure what the Warden is looking for, but he knows the man expects to meet someone in Val Chevin. Thom is just simply grateful that the Warden doesn’t want to head into the capital. Thom is not sure he is brave enough to show his face in the capital again, even if he is a Warden-Recruit.

In the quiet, Thom’s thoughts wander to other roads. In his mind’s eye he sees the carriages, the edges glowing as the flames consume them, the horses screaming in the background. In the confusion of finding all of the chevalier’s family with him no one thought to cut the horses loose from their traces; his men scramble madly as they cut harness while the Callier crest burns on the carriage door.

Suddenly Thom realizes his own horse is whickering. Snapping back to his senses he sees around him a ruined cart, smoldering, and a few bodies lying around it. Before Thom can gather his wits to call to the Warden, Blackwall is up and next to him looking at the damage. Stopping the cart, both men dismount and cover the remaining distance to the wreckage on foot. Without speaking they circle the wagon, investigating the grisly scene.

To Thom it looks as if the cart has been overtaken by bandits long gone. The Warden’s sheathing of his weapon leads him to believe his supposition accurate.

But with no warning the Warden bends low and scurries off into the vegetation line of a row of scrub brush. Before Thom can react the Warden reaches down and pulls up a writhing, dark mass. Thom quickly closes the distance; as he does he sees that the mass is a small child.

Breathing hard, but not speaking, eyes wide with fear and trying to watch both men at once, the boy is a feral, pitiful sight. The Warden walks with him, carries him to where their own cart is, carefully avoiding going near the bodies and wreckage, and puts the boy on the bed of the cart, facing away from the carnage.

Warden Blackwall stands up and points to the emblem on his armor and says to the boy in a clear, level tone: “Do you know what this is?” The boy nods at the griffon embossed out of the metal. Blackwall lowers himself eye to eye with the boy. “Do you know who I am then?” The boy looks at the Warden wide-eyed, swallows, and nods. “Good. My name is Blackwall, Gordon Blackwall. I took the Grey in 9:17 and have been a member of the Order for nigh on 20 years.” The Warden waits a moment and lets that permeate the boy’s consciousness. “Now, lad, can you tell me who I am?”

The boy swallows and licks his lips. “Warden Blackwall.”

The Warden softens his face and says, “Aye.” He removes his glove and sticks out his hand to the boy. “I am Constable-Warden Gordon Blackwall of the Grey, at your service, laddie. May I know your name?”

“Nicolas Blancbois,” the boy whispers, starts to extend his hand and stops, shy and unsure.

“Nicolas,” and the Warden shakes the boy’s hand. Then he straightens, takes a step back, allows the boy space to escape if he chooses. “Where do you come from, Nicolas Blancbois?”

“From Ghislain, Ser.”

“To where do you travel?”

“Montfort.”

“Do you know anyone there?”

“My Granmere. I travel to my Granmere.”

The Warden nods. He softens his voice slightly. “These were your people?”

Surprisingly, the boy shakes his head no.

Seemingly satisfied, the Warden asks, “You have belongings here?” The boy nods. “Describe them to Warden-Recruit Rainier here and he’ll fetch them for you. Have you eaten?” A shake; “Do you like tea?” a nod; “Then you and I will set up a fire over here.”

Thom listens to the boy’s description—some clothes and a prized bag of wooden toy soldiers—and goes to search the destroyed cart. He is rewarded with little of value, strengthening the suspicion of bandits, particularly when he finds some foodstuffs—packages broken up, but mostly intact—and bolts of cloth, from coarse sack to some serviceable linen. He finds the boy’s belongings, gathers some untouched sacks of grain and one of salt and another of sugar, and returns to the makeshift camp.

Once he’s there he sees the Warden has positioned their horse and cart as a blockade to the view of the wreckage across the road. The boy is greedily eating dried biscuit from last night’s supper with a bit of cheese and jerky. The Warden is pouring tea as Thom approaches.

Thom places the foodstuffs next to the Warden who inspects inside them. As Thom puts the boy’s belongings next to him, the Warden discovers the sugar and chuckles aloud. He scoops two large spoonfuls into a cup of tea, stirs it, and hands it to the boy.

“Here you go, laddie: strong, sweet tea. Armies march on less.” He softens toward the boy, not a smile, but an air of care extended his way.

“What did you find, Warden-Recruit?” Blackwall’s tone becomes formal.

Thom snaps to attention, standing straight, arms at his side, making report. “Probably bandits, Ser. Any ready valuables are gone. There are bolts of cloth, undyed, still there; serviceable things but marketable for a merchant. The ready travel rations are gone, but there are a few more bags of grain.”

“Well, you better go back and get that grain, and put a few bolts of the finer stuff in the cart; I daresay Granmere could use the coin when we find her. Nicolas,” he gestures to the boy who perks up at his name, his eyes a little less wide in his face as his belly feels full and warm, “will be seeing Granmere soon.”

Thom nods and moves off to fulfill the instruction.

“Oh, and Thom? You’d better find a mug for yourself. Otherwise there will be no tea for you.”

Thom laughs, knuckles his forehead, and sets about his tasks.


	5. Chapter 5

The boy, Nicolas, is falling asleep as he sits by the time Thom secures what Blackwall has commanded. As Thom sits down to a cup of tea the Warden leads the boy to the cart and settles him in amongst the bolts of cloth, unfurling one enough to cover the boy as he sleeps. Though it is mid-morning the boy’s eyes quickly close and Thom imagines this is the first rest he’s had in several days. The sense of feral fear that emanated off Nicolas when the Warden first plucked him up has quelled and the boy looks less like a wild thing and more like the child he is.

The two men efficiently finish breaking down the camp and they are underway in a matter of minutes. Thom resumes his place driving the cart and the Warden climbs in to the cart’s bed, carefully rearranging its load so he does not squish the boy. The Warden puts his back to the front of the cart. He can easily see the landscape at Thom’s back and the two men can still hold a conversation. This is becoming a routine into which they have settled when both of them are awake.

Thom calls the horse into movement. The Warden removes his pipe from his mouth and begins to clean the bowl. He drags a bit of straw through the stem, pushing out any remnants of charred tobacco, and then proceeds to fill the bowl. Blackwall is fastidious in how he prepares his pipe bowl, and Thom is often amused by the carefulness of the man’s ministrations, how he fills the bowl, tamps, fills the bowl, tamps again. Lights it, pulls for a few draws to allow the tobacco to settle, re-adds and tamps more tobacco in, and then lights the final product with a self-satisfied draw of breath.

As the silence of the road settles on them after these treatments are finished Thom speaks:

“Why was he out with merchants? Is he an orphan?”

Thom can no longer contain his curiosity. Blackwall’s quick acceptance that the dead merchants are not the boy’s kin strikes a discordant chord in Thom.

“The boy’s mother is still in Ghislain. She put him in a caravan with merchants to take the journey to Montfort.”

“Blight,” Thom interjects tersely. “He’s still in short pants. What kind of woman sends a young child off on their own without kin?” Thom’s voice is rough. The idea of a young lad alone in the world, to brave a rough road of bandits with no family to make the dark more palatable: it seems negligent.

The Warden lets silence stretch for the slightest of uncomfortable moments. Then he returns: “The kind of woman with few choices. The boy’s father died one winter back, the ague it sounded like, and his mother has been hard pressed for work. It seems she started working in a big house with a bunch of other ladies,” the Warden pauses significantly. “The boy is to go to live with his Granmere. I imagine the woman’s employer is _particular_ about her remaining at her post. It seems the merchant wasn’t unknown to them, old acquaintances of her husband’s; he was a weaver.” The Warden puffs on his pipe for a few moments; starts again: “I imagine she sold his tools, kept going as long as she was able, but finally gave in to what may have seemed like an inevitability. Granmere is not frail, but has a child still at home, the boy’s uncle,” Thom begins to shift in his seat to question. The Warden senses it and heads him off: “he may be simple from how the boy describes him.”

Thom looks front again. The Warden sighs softly and puffs on his pipe; absently he says: “Too many mouths to feed, not enough to feed them.”

The comment is innocuous enough, but something in the Warden’s tone sets Thom off balance. Uncomfortable, Thom seeks a diversion, asks, “Maker’s Balls, man, how did you get him to tell you his life’s story?”

“I imagine the same way I got you to tell me yours,” the Warden jibes back, but there is no rancor in his tone, only truth in his words. “Most people, when they see the armor, well, it’s like they think of endings. Grey Wardens are reminders that the Blight is one man’s life blood away from destroying everything, and the man whose blood may stand between now and the end of the world may be right in front of you. Thinking the man in front of you may be the end of the line, well … makes a lot of people loose with their secrets.”

Thom is disconcerted with how truthful Blackwall’s statement feels. It is only their third day of travelling, two nights after Thom asked to become Warden-Recruit Rainier, one night after he confessed everything to the Warden. That isn’t to say that Blackwall hadn’t known about the massacre, but he didn’t know its substance; no one could but Thom.

Thom drives in silence for a time. Finally he asks, “Do you often pick up strays?”

The Warden continues to puff on his pipe, measuredly drawing in the smoke and trailing it gently out his nose. Thom had meant the statement in gentle jest, meant to include himself; but he cannot feel if the other man’s silence is because he truly didn’t hear Thom or because the Warden’s anger at the statement is too stark.

“Sometimes you have to figure out for yourself what the pledge to protect others really means, Thom.”

Then the Warden falls silent, puffs contentedly on his pipe, watches the road ebb away from him.


	6. Chapter 6

The rest of the day passes uneventfully and the little party draws to a stop in the early dusk. There is still a plenty of light, mid-Spring as it is, and they make camp efficiently. Nicolas goes in search of firewood, stays within easy sight of Thom who goes out with him unasked.

When they return to camp, the Warden takes Nicolas and shows him how to start a fire with the still glowing coal—fiery and dry in its special metal box—and dried kindling from the morning’s camp. Thom finishes rubbing down the horse, watching from the distance as the Warden carefully instructs Nicolas how to set the fire. The boy is fiercely proud, his eyes gleaming as the flames lick up to catch the sticks, and the Warden sends the boy off to get water for the kettle. Blackwall settles down to rough together the creamy beige, pig lard with flour for the pan biscuits he’ll make in the coals in a bit.

Thom joins the Warden near the fire, stands next to the man, sees the boy carefully returning in the distance. “You are very gentle with him,” Thom observes.

The Warden grunts in acknowledgement, but then Nicolas is there and Thom can’t ask how a Grey Warden gets so comfortable around a boy, a mere child. He leaves it for another time.

Dinner is a simple matter. As they finish, night has come in earnest. Thom takes the washing up to the stream that is near and by the time he returns to the fire the Warden has bedded the boy down in his own bedroll. The previous long days of terror have taken their toll on the boy and Nicolas lies facing the fire, his eyes drooping. Since the Warden sits across from the boy, Thom gathers his own bedroll and lays it out so that each of them lies at the corner of a triangle surrounding the fire. The Warden’s overlarge cloak which bears the chain of his office sits on the ground next to him. The man frequently takes the first watch, puffing his pipe into the night, as he does now.

Thom lays down on his bedroll and stretches sore back muscles. They had passed earlier through a boggy patch of road and Thom had pushed the cart several times to keep it from getting trapped in the mire. His shoulders are now paying the price. As muscle begins to relax into the contours of ground and cotton batting beneath him, he settles in and with a soft sigh closes his eyes.

Then, two things happen, neither of them expected. A particularly wet piece of wood shifts to the center of the fire coals and the sap still inside of the wood pulp heats and explodes, reverberating into the night. Immediately following this, Nicolas moves from dead asleep to bolt upright and shoots into the dark at a run. With barely a moment’s hesitation the Warden is on his feet, chasing after the boy in the underbrush.

Thom sits up on his bed roll, unsure and blinking into the dark. The abruptness of both acts leave Thom stifled to react. He hears the Warden tromping after the boy, a pause, and then the rhythmical pounding of footfalls of the large man returning to the firelight. As he approaches the light Thom sees he bears the boy in his arms; Nicolas’s head is on his shoulder, his arms around the Warden’s neck. Blackwall places the boy on the bedroll, murmurs, “there you be, lad,” and moves to sit by the boy’s feet, his large hand on the boy’s calf. He speaks into the night:

“The Mabari are a fierce species. Warrior dogs of ancient Ferelden kings, long before there was a Chantry. In the Frostback Mountains a boy named Nicolas lived with his maman and grandmere. Nicolas was a strong lad, but he did not have any menfolk around, so he didn’t have anyone to teach him how to hold a dagger or how to snare a rabbit,” Thom hears the boy sigh. The boy’s eyes begin to slowly dip close, batting open again, and then closing, longer and longer periods of closing as the Warden winds a tale of a Mabari hound that finds a young boy and becomes his best friend. It is part way through the pair’s adventure into a mine and retrieving a treasure chest that Thom hears the boy begin to snuffle in snoring slumber.

Blackwall catches it, too, and he trails off softly, abruptly ending the story in the night. The Warden keeps his hand on the boy’s leg, a soft weight of reassurance.

Curious, Thom sits up. He hesitates to ask for the finish of the tale, but he wants to. He feels intrigued that this brusque warrior could spin a story to brighten the darkness for a small, lost boy. “How did you come by the ability to soothe a child like that?” Thom asks softly so not to wake the boy. “Is that usual for a Grey Warden?”

“Wasn’t always a Warden. Everyone has a life before.” The Warden looks over at Nicolas and sets about re-lighting his pipe, absently drawing on the embers. He fills the silence as he does, speaking in fits and starts, his movements punctuating his statements:

“I had a family, a long time ago. I had a son and a daughter. The last time I saw them, the boy was the age of that one,” he points to Nicolas.

“What happened to your wife?” Thom asks.

The Warden sits and puffs on his pipe. The silence stretches on and Thom thinks he won’t answer. There is little point in asking again, the man can keep his secrets. Thom settles his bedroll, starts to bunch his jacket for his head –

“I killed her.”

Thom stills and is silent, shock muddling his mind.

“Why would you do that?” Thom can’t keep himself from asking.

“We’d been married for ten years. It was a good life. She survived the first two pregnancies well, bore bonny, hale infants each time.

“Then she was pregnant again. The baby quickened and she was growing lovely and round, such a beautiful sight.

“But as she neared her time, she stopped growing bigger. The Midwife said the babe faltered in the womb. She was so far gone, though, she had to birth it; a wee slip of a girl, little dusky hair on her head and her lip in a purse, just like she was ready to take the breast.” The man softly sighs, taken in with his memories.

“Well,” he continues, “Alexia wasn’t right after. She started talking to people that weren’t there. I didn’t want to have her in danger, afraid the constabulary would send her away, so I kept her to the house, going in to do the shopping and such.

“See, she was still good with the children, Justin and Mirabelle. I thought if she could see how much they needed her, she’d come back to us.

“But, one day I come back from the market and the house is quiet, much too quiet. I call for Alexia and at first I can’t hear anything and then I catch it, she’s singing the Chant in our bedroom.

“When I open the door she’s kneeling at the foot of the bed and Justin and Mirabelle are laid out, blue and cold in death.

“She’d made them sweet cakes and filled them with arsenic. Alexia told me it was so the babe could play with her siblings.

“I tore out of the room, bellowing my grief. Alexia ran after me, sobbing that it was for the best, they’d all be happy together now. I just kept shouting and shaking her. Before I could register it, my hands were on her throat, trying to force her to stop saying that it was for the best. Finally, she did stop.

“When she ceased to struggle, I left her there in the dirt, stumbled back into our bedroom and sank down beside the bed and began in Exaltations. That’s where Matthieu found me. He’d brought some fresh bread from his wife. They lived closest to us and they knew Alexia was poorly. The poor man found her in the dirt, rushed inside to find me sobbing.

“He could have thought I’d killed all three, but he saw the right of it. Explained it to the constable which is why I went to a cold cell instead of just getting hung up from a tree while the town held a funeral and buried my life.

“Three days later at my trial a Grey Warden shows up, Rémy, and requests conscription rights after my sentence is pronounced.

“I said yes to being a Warden. After that it seemed more likely to me that a Warden would save the world than the Maker, so I stopped praying the Chant. I chose what to have faith in that day.”

With that, the man moves back toward his cloak, wraps it around his shoulders, and then puts his back to the fire to watch out into the darkness. With this end to the conversation, Thom settles down into his bedroll. His eyes remain open for some time, however.


	7. Chapter 7

When they arrive in Montfort it is late afternoon and the light is getting long. It appears to be a market day the next day. The center square of the town fills with carters and wagons. Men and women work to slap together boards and planks, constructing makeshift stalls, and a metal barrel is being rolled to the center of the commotion—and more around the perimeter—with firewood stacked next to them by members of the watch.

The Warden finds an empty spot and brings the cart to rest.

“See to the horse, Thom. Ask the boy if he knows where to draw water,” and then the Warden is off into the crowd. Thom is not able to even ask a question, watching the crowd swallow the other man up as he swings his great cloak around his shoulders and fastens the clasp that bears his emblem of office despite the warm sunlight that stretches toward evening.

The light, in fact, begins to glow and tint toward purple before the Warden returns. Thom had found a gracious goodwife who filled his cook pan with hot water to make tea for himself and the boy. The horse was fed and watered. The boy did indeed know where to find a well, and he had come straight back with a half-full bucket: as large as one so slight could carry.

Nicolas spoke little while they cared for the horse, giving the animal a nose bag of grain from the cart. But the boy’s eyes were alive with intelligence and he never stopped moving his neck, taking in all of the sights around him. The Warden approaches them from across the market. He is stopped once or twice by travelling merchants who speak a few words, extend their hands, and shake the grizzled Warden’s.

Finally Blackwall reaches them and Thom sees that the other man carries several hot rolls in paper. He hands them to the boy and takes one for himself. Thom does the same. They eat in silence for a few moments.

“I have a place for us tonight. Let’s move the cart.”

Without further ado, Blackwall lifts Nicolas into the cart bed and Thom re-harnesses the horse to the cart’s traces and then climbs into the back with the boy.

The inn the Warden found is not far from the marketplace, but away from the more “fashionable” quarters of Montfort. They turn down an alley that holds as many houses as it does storefronts and most buildings seem to contain living quarters two and three flights up.

Buildings are white washed and glow in the fading light with brightly colored shutters and doors. The first of the Spring herbs, chervil and royal elfroot, grows in pots and cascades from window-sill boxes.

The Warden turns into a yard hidden from the street. The inn is a large house that one day found itself in a working class neighborhood. The ground floor appears to serve as a public house for the neighborhood and the three upper stories fill a variety of purposes. Judging from the noise, though, tonight it is filled with attendees to the next day’s market. Thom, the Warden, and Nicolas gather their personal belongings, and the Warden passes a coin to the stable lad to keep the bolts and other supplies from prying fingers.

Thom and Nicolas follow Blackwall up a back stair to a room with two beds. Thom sets down his saddle bags. Nicolas starts to do the same with his sack of meager belongings, mirroring Thom, but Blackwall stops him. “Nay, lad. You’ll be wantin’ that. I think we’ll see someone downstairs looking for you.”

With nothing more, the Warden sweeps out. Nicolas follows on the man’s heels, clutching his belongings to his chest. Thom has little choice but to follow the excitement.

The ground floor is abuzz with laughter and talk. Barmaids move expertly around the tables, delivering plates of food and goblets of ale. The Warden walks to the bar and is hailed by a large man standing behind it. He wears an apron and has a cosh hanging at his side from the waist ties.

Thom can’t catch what the men say in the din, but he sees the inn owner look down to the boy and grin. He gestures for a woman who smiles at the Warden and the young boy and beckons them to come behind the bar and through a doorway. Blackwall looks over his shoulder, gestures to Thom, and for the owner’s benefit motions for Thom to follow him.

Thom does, nodding his head in greeting as he passes the owner. The man sniffs and stiffens slightly in acknowledgement and then nods briskly to Thom in return.

Once through the doorway, the noise that had been a palatable force in the common room tamps down. It is not silent in the new space, though; they walk around the perimeter of a large kitchen where numerous activities are happening and the smell of bread is pervasive and inviting. The lady of the establishment leads them past the bustle of the kitchen crew to a fire grate that lies off to the side. Two chairs and several stools sit around it, speaking of amiable moments of quiet in the kitchen when the market is not come to Montfort.

Sitting in one of the chairs is a stout-looking matron. Her steely gray hair is pulled back in a perfunctory chignon, and she has a simple knit shawl wrapped around her plain dress and apron.

“Marthe,” the lady of the establishment says, “is this the boy?”

Before the woman Marthe can turn fully Nicolas drops his bag and runs to the woman with an exclamation of:  “Grandmere!”

“Oh, le petit garçon. Où étiez-tu? Grand-mère était si inquiet. Êtes-tu bien? Tu êtes si grand!”

Thom blinks, unable to follow the Orlesian dialect Marthe speaks. To Thom’s surprise, the boy answers in kind, speaking rapidly. Nicolas’s face lights with joy and Thom stills. Nicolas gestures wildly, telling his tale; Marthe gasps and Nicolas continues to gesticulate, shaking his head no to a question his Grandmere asks. The boy holds out his hand to the Grey Warden. To Thom’s further surprise Blackwall responds fluidly in the same Orlesian dialect. Marthe and the Warden exchange courtesies and Nicolas continues his tale of how they all came to travel here together.

Thom realizes the lady of the establishment watches him. Thom knows his face undoubtedly registers some of his emotion at the exchange. It has been a long time since he witnessed such a normal, human, family interaction. Thom self-consciously rubs at his chin and feels his stubble. There has not been a chance to shave since they came upon Nicolas, and Thom knows he must look a sight:  unkempt and overcome by events.

“Come, monsieur, come eat,” and she guides him to a large table situated away from the door to the public room, nestled closer instead to a door to outside. Thom looks beyond the doorway and can see the yard they drove the cart into not thirty minutes before.

The lady pours him a glass of sweet ale from a pitcher on the table, places it in front of him, and begins to lay out a napkin, fork, knife, and a dessert spoon, nesting the last at the top of his place setting. Thom hesitates, aware that he has not cleaned his hands or face; he does not desire to insult this woman’s table. He asks quietly: “I should like to wash my hands, Mademoiselle …” he trails off, the question on his face.

“Between here and the yard, there is a breezeway with a pump and you’ll find soap,” she gestures behind him, and as he turns to go, nodding his assent, she says, “And it is Madame Semeuse.”

Thom turns, draws himself up, “Thom Rainier, Madame, Your Servant,” and he bows from his waist, feet planted on the ground, his right hand fisted to his heart. She tilts her head in curious acknowledgement of the formality and stares after him as he moves toward the yard.

He does indeed find the pump and the warm Spring means the water is chilled but not icy. It is clean and sweet. Thom finds a large cake of harsh, lye and tallow soap, obviously put out for the stable hands. It does much to lift the dirt out of the creases in his knuckles. As he finishes with his hands and arms he spies another, smaller bar of soap. It is creamier—probably rapeseed and not tallow—and smells softly of elfroot and bee balm. He uses it to wash his face, neck, and—after a moment of indecision—quickly dunks his head under the pump. He quickly lathers the soap through it, rinses, and then pulls a comb from his pocket. He stands next to the kitchen door, looks at his reflection in the window glass illuminated by the last rays of the setting sun, and puts his hair to rights.

Feeling relaxed he re-enters quietly and sits at the table. Madame Semeuse has placed a bowl of hot bread and a crock of sweet butter and a jar of pickled spring onions on the table. Thom drinks from his ale and watches the Warden speak to Nicolas’s Grandmere and Madame Semeuse.

One of the kitchen maids sets a plate with sliced roast, stewed greens, and roasted turnips and carrots in front of him. He thanks her and pulls bread to him—still doughy soft—and lavishes butter on it. He and the Warden have been living rough for a week. Prior to that Thom had focused on keeping enough alcohol in his bloodstream to dull his mind and gave little care for other creature comforts.

Marthe and Nicolas walk with Blackwall toward the yard door. As they near the table, Nicolas stops briefly and bows to Thom. Thom solemnly dips his head in acknowledgement and calls Nicolas to him. Thom takes one of Nicolas’s toy soldiers from his pocket. The boy’s eyes go wide, and he looks at Thom in confusion. Thom tilts it to him and Nicolas grabs at it, a treasured possession reclaimed.

Nicolas looks down at the recovered toy, his thumb rubbing up and down the chest and the boy’s mouth forms in a small “o”. Nicolas turns and looks at the Warden’s chest, and then he turns and hugs Thom, winding his little arms around his neck, “thank you, Ser,” he mumbles into Thom’s collar and then he runs toward the yard. Before he turns away, Thom can see the boy’s eyes, luminous with moisture and exhaustion from the day. Blackwall follows Marthe to the yard and Thom turns back to his dinner.

“What was that about?” Madame Semeuse asks. “Had he lost it?”

“No.” Thom says gruffly, his voice catching. “I whittle a bit. I carved a griffon badge into one of his toy soldiers.” Thom focuses on his plate, doesn’t look at the woman.

Wordlessly, she refills his ale cup and then turns to lay a place for the Warden.


	8. Chapter 8

Thom takes another piece of toffee, the last one, out of the bag and slides it into his mouth. He tucks it up into the roof of his mouth and sucks, drawing the near burnt sugar across his soft palette and down into his throat.

He does not have a pronounced sweet tooth, generally preferring liquor to sugar. But toffee is a treat from his childhood. The smell of it as he passed the stall, a sheet still cooling from where the woman had cooked a batch this morning, teased his nostrils with the promise of childhood carefreeness. His mother used to make it, large sheets of it to tempt a young boy. That was before Liddy died; there were fewer sweet things after that.

He crumples the paper bag and turns from the last of the market stalls and walks to the inn. It is mid-afternoon and the town center teems with people. It is a large market, a quarterly affair, and even now in the midst of the third day people still flow into the city looking for commodities that have been in short supply over the icy, frigid winter. The common room should be a good place for a bit of quiet and some cool away from the hot, afternoon sun.

When he arrives he is not the only one in the inn. Blackwall sits with the innkeeper, Monsieur Semeuse. The Warden has scarcely moved from that table since depositing the bolts of linen with Nicolas’s Granmere and wishing Nicolas a final farewell, two mornings ago. The Warden notices Thom enter, but the man doesn’t acknowledge Thom’s presence and continues his discussion with the innkeeper. Thom crosses to the bar, sits, and asks for a tankard of dry cider from the maid behind the bar. She brings it, smiles at Thom, and collects her penny before retreating back to finish peeling potatoes for tonight’s dinner.

Thom sips his cider, looking in the mirror in front of him behind the bar’s shelves of glasses and plates. He can just see the head and shoulders of Blackwall and he notices that the innkeeper now stands, burly arms crossed over his chest, while he talks to the Warden. They speak in low tones and Thom cannot hear what is being said, although the guarded, dour posture of each says enough.

Both men remain for a moment, and then the Warden scrapes back his chair, rises from the table, and shakes the innkeeper’s hand. The Warden moves to join Thom, and Monsieur Semeuse joins the maid peeling potatoes. Thom watches the innkeeper’s deft hands quickly flick the peels away from the creamy flesh as he casually drops one after another into the pot of water.

Blackwall smokes his pipe and Thom can smell the smoke approach even before he sees the man in the mirror, before he feels the man choose a stool next to him at the bar. “Anything of interest?” Thom asks, wondering what would keep the Warden so absorbed with an innkeeper and what has kept them in Montfort these last two days.

“Nay, the opposite,” the Warden draws on his pipe. “The countryside is quiet. It’s why those bandits were able to overtake a merchant caravan on a well-known highway in the midst of the market week.”

Thom is confused. “That seems the opposite of quiet,” he questions.

“Bandits mean there’s nothing else around. Not darkspawn, not even the Charta if Bernard’s information is to be trusted. The usual Lyrium smuggling routes through the Nahashin Marshes are quiet,” the Warden draws on his pipe; releases the smoke. “Something is aligning, Thom. But I don’t know what.”

Thom thinks for a moment. “But you said it yourself? The darkspawn retreat after a Blight. It’s been almost seven years; surely it’s a good sign?” The Warden says nothing, eyes his own reflection in the mirror and draws on his pipe.

Silence stretches on. Thom finishes his cider. The innkeeper gets up, goes to the kitchens, returns with mugs of tea for each of them, sits back down with the maid, and continues to peel potatoes. Still they sit on; still the Warden says nothing. Minutes pass in this manner, stretching into the quarter of the hour, the half hour. Thom wonders what’s next. It is apparent the Warden has no intention of setting off today and Thom begins to think it may not be tomorrow, either. He can’t say he’s particularly nervous about the Joining, but he would like to get it over with. He assumed they travelled to Val Chevin for the ritual, but the more they linger Thom wonders what the Warden’s intentions are.

The Warden’s constant, taciturn presence in the common room has not gone unnoticed. No small numbers of gawkers travel in for a cup of ale and to stare at the warrior. Thom has taken to gambling for pennies with these farmers, carters, and merchants, getting his own cup of ale paid for from time to time when someone hears he is joining up. He appreciates the feeling of notoriety such attention garners him and wonders if the absence of darkspawn is so unusual in these people’s lives. Thom wonders if these same people—who also usually shake the Warden’s hand—believe the old Warden single-handedly cleared them out. After listening to some of the Warden’s exploits these last days and week, Thom wonders if the man could do just that. He turns to ask the Warden how you survive a darkspawn horde, but the question dies on his lips as the gloom of the common room is disrupted by the light from the opening of the front door.

Thom turns to see the newcomer as he feels the man next to him shift and relax almost imperceptibly.

Monsieur Semeuse stands in front of the woman who looks him in the eye, she’s so tall. The innkeeper greets her warmly, holding her elbows and kissing each of her cheeks in greeting. She is slender, but her height brings elegance to it. She could easily command a room, her presence drawing the eye; but she somehow avoids the light, resting in the shadows. At a gesture from the innkeeper and a nod toward the bar, though, she draws herself up and finally claims the light. Her nose is strong and obviously has never been broken, Thom notes, its ridge delicate as it tapers up to her brow. Her age is difficult to determine; her body is lithe, like that of a younger woman, but her eyes speak to a presence of years and experience. It is her eyes that Thom stops on as she locks in his gaze and begins to stalk him from across the room. She never reaches for the longbow arched gracefully above her head, but Thom understands he could never watch her hands closely enough to see from where the dagger would come when she stabbed him.

Without warning Blackwall puts his hand on Thom’s shoulder and says casually, “Don’t play with the new meat, Alisse; it isn’t becoming to a Warden-Commander.” At Blackwall’s gruff voice the woman shifts, tempering her stance slightly, becomes less predatory, but with a no less watchful stare. Blackwall continues: “Warden-Recruit Thom Rainier may I present Alisse Fontaine, the Champion of Montsimmard, Troubadour of House Valmont, and Warden-Commander of Orlais.”

“Maker, you forgot that ridiculous one they gave me after Celestine; what was it?” and she taps her lip with a delicate fingertip in time with the tapping of her foot in a pantomime of thought. She winks at Thom: “Angler of Lake Celestine?”

Blackwall rises from his bar stool and crosses to the woman, wraps his arms around her waist and pulls her into an embrace, burying his head in her neck. She closes her eyes, clenches her hands in his hair and says softly, “Gordon.” At the sound the warrior lifts her feet from the floor and pulls him into her. They stand for a moment, holding the embrace, and then he sets her back on the floor and steps slightly back. His eyes never leave her face. “I still say you made that one up,” the gruff warrior accuses with a chuckle in his tone.

“Pah,” she returns with a smile and swat of her hand that lands on his forearm and rests there, “you know if they announced that one at Court the Empress would have to go to war with Rivain.” She shifts her gaze to Thom. “So, the Callier massacre? I’m glad he caught up with you before the throne did. You’ll be good in a tight spot.” Thom’s breath hitches at her matter of fact statement, but she either doesn’t notice or—more likely Thom thinks—doesn’t care.

“I haven’t eaten in a day,” she pronounces and Blackwall scowls. “Oh, don’t hen me,” she says without rancor, “there’s been no time. I was headed to Val Chevin to meet a recalcitrant and wayward constable, so it is the greatest luck to stumble upon him here.” She turns to the innkeeper. “Bernard, by the Tears of the Bride, it is good to be in your house. How is Lysette?”

“She is well, Commander, and will be grateful to have you under her roof for a few nights.” The Commander begins to wave him off, understanding on her features that they are full to bursting with the market, “She will insist, as you well know, and will broker no argument from me or you. You have a seat over there, Missy is rousing you a hot lunch and I have some Lothering Milk Stout. Just started getting it in, seems an old brewing family is trying to rebuild. I’ve been waiting for you to tap it.”

Blackwall grunts a sound of surprise and loudly murmurs to Alisse, “He damn well didn’t open it for me, did he?”

The Commander turns to Blackwall and smiles, “I should think not, Gordon. If I remember correctly last time you were here you drunk this man’s fine gin and then passed out in his stable yard. I don’t remember if you scared the horses or the stable lad worse,” she winks at the innkeeper who laughs and turns toward the kitchen and his tap cellar door.

“Hmmph, not my fault my Commander was three days late,” Blackwall says under his breath. The Commander, though, is already moving to a table, the same that Blackwall has sat at for three days. She begins to remove her gloves and sets her long bow into the corner behind her.

Thom sees that it is unstrung and realizes that this woman must not only be able to manage the 250 plus pound draw, but also must string her own bow in the field. Slender she may look, but there is nothing slight about Alisse Fontaine. He hesitates to follow, but Blackwall gestures him over and the three join at the table.

“Did Bernard tell you it’s been quiet?” she asks. Blackwall nods at her question. She continues: “I’ve near ridden two horses to death from the Approach and I’ve yet to sense a damn one. I think all the reports may be true.”

“A recall?”

“I don’t know if they’re capable of such organization without an Archdemon, but I don’t know what else to think, Gordon. It’s damn odd. I’ve signaled Anatole; our drop in Val Chevin is no longer safe. I looked to here for a message from him,” she smiles, “and because I know you can’t resist Lysette’s rolls.” She playfully punches at Blackwall’s gut. “Anatole came through; he has a lead.”

“I will take it, Alisse.”

They stare at one another for moments. The innkeeper brings tall glasses of the stout and the barmaid brings the Commander’s soup, cheese, hard sausage, pears, and fresh bread and sweet butter. Neither Blackwall or the Warden-Commander notices the movement of acknowledges it; they continue to look at one another.

Blackwall breaks the silence first:  “This one needs the Joining, Alisse, and you need someone you can trust. Besides,” he grabs a roll from the basket, breaks it open, lavishes butter on it, “I do not court the Calling.”

The Warden-Commander sniffs, nods brusquely, and digs into her soup, accepting the buttered bread Blackwall hands her. “Yes,” she says, “I am needed in Val Royeaux to see if the Jennies can help me sort out Val Chevin.”

“What do you know?”

The Commander swallows her soup and begins to cut a pear with a knife absently pulled from behind her bicep. “The Storm Coast.”

“Jader?” Blackwall asks as she slides a slice into her mouth, begins to slice the semi-soft cheese.

“ _Non_. Ferelden, east of the finger shoals.”

“The Coastlands.”

“ _Oui_. Daerwin’s Mouth.”

Blackwall curses in what sounds like Rivani. “I knew we would regret not clearing that tunnel. Clarel will be furious we missed this.”

“She will,” Fontaine agrees, “You were both right. It was a mistake to let it languish. But all we can do is attend to what is in front of us. It will take some effort not to tangle with the Charta in this one.”

“What about Theirin?” Blackwall asks.

“Morellus has spoken to him. As long as we don’t start a trade war, we have Ferelden’s blessing.”

“And if we do?”

“Then the King asks that we kidnap him so he doesn’t have to attend the Landsmeet.” Fontaine smiles at Blackwall’s guffaw, “But I suspect Arl Teagan would tie him down the moment war was declared, so I don’t think he’s getting out of Denerim anytime soon.

“I want you to assess everything top side, find out who is using the port and watch for movement in and out of the tunnels. I’ll rally Clarel and Riordan and send word to the Legion in Orzammar and formally ask for aid from Morellus. He will request aid from his Crown and I have no doubt Theirin will send a small squad with the Warden-Commander. For now you will take Rainier and head out on your own. I want you to have at least a week there. Control the field, Gordon, direct your reinforcements, and come back; I expect your report in person.”

“You don’t trust you networks?” Blackwall asks.

“Yes,” she drawls, lips twitching, “that’s why I want you to report directly to me.”

Thom looks down and realizes that while the two Wardens have plotted, Fontaine polished off all of the food in front of her. She stretches, unfurling her limbs with a sigh of peace. The tone at the table shifts and the two Wardens relax in their chairs. The change in atmosphere doesn’t go unnoticed by the innkeeper and he comes ready to offer more stout.

“Bernard, impeccable as always! The hospitality of your house is unrivalled around the Waking Sea.” Fontaine declares. “May I head to your bath house and rinse away the stink of horse?”

The innkeeper smiles indulgently and says, “Certainly, Commander. I will send Missy out with towels and some of Lysette’s bee balm soap.” The innkeeper turns to Blackwall, “the gable room at the top of the house, on the east side, is still open,” the man then turns back to Fontaine. “It isn’t much, Ser, but it will be warm and quiet.”

The authoritative rogue crosses to the innkeeper and gently leans toward him to place a kiss high on his cheek, “It is more than I have a right to expect during a market week. Val Royeaux calls, duty calls, but a moment to be myself,” she sighs, closes her eyes, trails off. Abruptly, Fontaine sniffs and draws herself up, “Two nights, Bernard, and then we must be away; Lysette’s objections or no.”

The innkeeper smiles, “Will we see you to dinner tonight, or in the morning?”

Fontaine looks over her shoulder to Blackwall who has begun to gather the Commander’s bow and gloves, the gruff warrior looks at the rogue and says softly, “a quiet kitchen supper with friends would be most welcome.”

Fontaine smiles and returns, “Yes, Bernard, a late supper would be welcome. You’ll join us.” Thom startles to realize she speaks to him. It is not a question.

“Yes, Ser. Thank you, Ser,” he answers.

She nods, and turns out of the room without a glance backwards, confident that all will follow her directions.

The innkeeper heads off to give instructions to Missy. Blackwall gathers up the Commander’s bow, quiver, and gloves. He motions to Thom and the two men go out to the yard. Blackwall nods at the stable lad and approaches a large, beautiful horse colored in browns with distinct white patches. Thom assumes this must be the Commander’s mount. Blackwall gestures to a set of saddlebags on the ground for Thom to pick up as the Warden, himself, approaches the animal. Thom sees the man take a pear from a pocket on his chest and palm it. As the horse accepts the offering, Blackwall pats the horse’s muzzle, looking it in the eye and speaking low and serious. Then the Warden steps back, fists his arm to his chest in a salute, nods his head to the horse, and turns crisply away to gather up the bow and quiver he left outside the stall.

As they leave the stableyard, Thom finally rouses to ask, “I’ve not seen a horse like that before.”

“You may see more if Marcellus joins us at Daerwin’s Mouth. She is an Anderfel Courser and I am glad Alisse was able to pick her up. When she said she changed horses, I was afraid _Gentile Fille_ was at the mercies of some stable master in the west. It is good to see her again.” They climb up the backstairs that will go by the room they share. “She has carried the Commander through many a patch. They are bred for the Wardens and a pair is gifted to each Warden-Commander upon taking the post.”

“Where does the Commander keep the other one?”

“ _Garçon Sarrasins_ fell saving Alisse’s life.” The man turns into their shared room and quietly gathers up his own things, rejoins Thom in the hallway. They continue up another flight of stairs until they end in a small hall. This hallway is narrow, sits on the east end of the house, and contains only two doors. Blackwall turns toward the eaves and opens the door into a small room nestled into a gable of the house that overlooks the yard below. The man puts down his burdens and turns to take the Commander’s saddle bags from Thom. “Will we leave in the morning?” Thom asks, uncertain what is expected.

“No, Thom. I will leave when Alisse is ready.” Sensing that Thom wants to ask questions that he just manages to keep in his mouth, the Warden smiles slightly and offers: “At the Stronghold, out there,” he gestures out the window, “I am her Constable, the Warden-Commander’s second in command. In here—well, she is always my Commander—“ Blackwall grins, “but in here, she is my Alisse. We’ll see you at dinner, Thom.” The finality of the statement dismisses Thom who turns back to the hallway, the door closing behind him. He heads down the stairs, goes into the common room, and looks for a game of cards until supper.


	9. Chapter 9

He doesn't realize the hurlock wasn’t alone.

When he climbs up the cliff with the full vial of blood in his pocket he’d feels free for the first time in many full moons. He will finally save himself. But as Thom crests the cliff, Blackwall springs into movement before him, throwing one of his daggers past Thom’s head. Thom swerves in time to see the genlock scrabbling up behind him. The axe the darkspawn swings narrowly misses Thom, the iron ringing against the stone of the cliff where he had been moments before. Thom’s eye draws unwillingly down the cliffside and he spies half a dozen more darkspawn climbing up the wall after him.

Thom scrambles to his feet and he and the Warden stand shoulder to shoulder as the first of the darkspawn crests over the rise.

The first ones go down easily enough, although Blackwall is doing most of the work. Then more top the ridge and Thom is fighting for his life. He begins to slow and he takes a slice to his bicep, blood weeping to his vambrace. Thom falters and falls prone; Blackwall parries the next thrust away from Thom. But the aid costs the Warden and the two darkspawn he’d been dealing with flank him. While the two stout genlocks harry the Warden, Thom watches in horror as the hurlock that had been looming over Thom turns toward Blackwall and runs the man through the gut from behind. Blackwall makes a gurgle,  a harsh, wet sound from his throat.

The hurlock roars in triumph, slings the Warden over his shoulder, and grunts to the genlocks. The two scrabble and fall in behind him and all four of them disappear over the edge. Thom breathes hard, straining to hear over the pounding of the surf below, trying to listen for … anything.

He knows he should hope that the man is dead, for the Warden’s sake. Maker, a quick death would be the most merciful thing to wish him. Thom scrubs his hand down his face, trying to clear the sweat and the terror from his head. The haze of adrenaline dissipates slightly. He hears nothing.

_How could it go so fucking wrong? My one chance, to start over, to be worth something in the end; how could it go wrong?_

He came here to be made a new man, to become a different man. He had met the Warden-Commander; surely he could just go to her in Val Royeaux, tell her what happened, explain why he is there alone. But he has no Warden to protect him inside the capital and no way to corroborate his story. Even now, the Commander looks for spies. Would she even believe that this runaway traitor hadn’t been a plant all along, killed her second, betrayed her lover? No. There is no help to be found in Val Royeaux.

But Thom can’t just accept that it is all gone. He lays on the ground, immobile as dusk creeps in and the sound of gulls fills the air, the birds rising and falling past the cliff in search of their supper in the surf below.

_Thom Rainier is a hunted man._

He thinks.

_But Gordon Blackwall is not._

In a flash it takes shape in front of him. He is still a man who is good with a sword, and Blackwall showed him that being a Warden wasn’t all about Archdemons and Blights. He is a Warden-Recruit; he still wants to lay down his life to protect others.

He will leave here a new man, head further south, deeper into Ferelden, take on the mantle of Grey Warden. Perhaps one day he will be worthy of the armor. Until then, he will have to do his best to become worthy.

**Author's Note:**

> Create Order #12  
> For more on this story's creation, checkout [Appendix, Chapter 6](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6612037/chapters/18520750)


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